


Silent, Steady, Still

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Domestic Angsty Fluffy One-Shots [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:20:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hi Friends. Warning for mentions of past drug use. If you find drug references triggering, please leave now and read the other happier wonderful fics written by incredibly talented writers on this site. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent, Steady, Still

John is the steady one, the constant one. He cooks and cleans and translates for Sherlock when his brain is deducing rapid-fire and he does not have time to parse social niceties. John sits with him in companionable quiet when Sherlock needs to talk through a case or when the boredom is so strong that the black fog overtakes his mind and leaves him a still, silent huddled mass on the sofa. John runs frantically through London streets side-by-side with Sherlock, he wrestles...fights...overpowers fleeing criminals, and then happily accompanies Sherlock home to make tea and memorialize every last detail in black and white, proudly displayed on his blog for the world to read. Sherlock had the work before John. He interrogated, deduced, and brilliantly solved hundreds of cases, but John gives the work meaning. Sherlock showed John the battlefield and John showed Sherlock the home front. The people, the families, the lives behind the crimes and Sherlock can't just see the puzzle anymore, now he sees the tragedy. It's softened him. Not a lot, but at least he hasn't left a shocked victim hyperventilating into a paper bag lately. John has given him so much, which is why Sherlock feels a mind-numbing white flash of panic on a sunny Tuesday afternoon in May.

John is filling in for Sarah at the clinic, just some locum work. John resigned his permanent part-time post months ago. Sherlock is lounging on the sofa cataloguing the details of the case they had solved early this morning when the sound of keys scraping in the lock filters into his mind palace. That's odd. Normally, Sherlock wouldn't have registered any sound at all until the culprit was in the sitting room. Sherlock pauses his mental cataloging and listens, momentarily fascinated. His fascination quickly turns to horror then fear as he recognizes the slow, heavy, uneven tread that announces John's return to the flat. His limp is back. That much is clear, but Sherlock doesn't know why. Won't know until he sees John's beautifully expressive open face. This is the part that still leaves Sherlock wrong-footed and frantic - emotions. He cares for John and he's not certain that he'll know what to do once he deduces the problem. The shrieking alarm in Sherlock's head hits a crescendo as John lumbers up the last stair and trudges into the sitting room, headed for his room. He seems shocked to find Sherlock alert, which Sherlock concedes is fair considering he had been fully entrenched in his mind palace when John left this morning. With a resigned sigh, John changes his trajectory and comes to rest in his chair. His elbows rest on his knees to support the weight he carries in his shoulders and the bowed head he cradles in his hands. 

The earliness of his return means that John came straight from the clinic, probably didn't even finish his shift. The presence of John's limp screams inadequacy. John feels inadequate. Why? The whole story is written in the defeated slump of his shoulders and the drawn haggard look Sherlock glimpsed before it disappeared behind John's shaking fingers. A death then. But whom? Nobody goes to the clinic with a life-threatening injury. They go to Bart's or City...a proper hospital. Clinics simply aren't equipped to handle major catastrophes. John shudders violently and Sherlock goes still. He knows exactly what happened now. 

He rises, graceful as ever despite his trepidation, walks to the kitchen and fills the kettle. He sets it to boil and stands uncertainly. If John could see Sherlock he would laugh and tease him. Sherlock Holmes doesn't fidget. What's wrong, love? John would ask with an ear-splitting grin. But John is the one bleeding and Sherlock feels totally unequipped to put him back together. The kettle whistles and Sherlock jumps. John doesn't even flinch. He is unaware that Sherlock has moved. Quickly, Sherlock fixes the tea (no sugar for John) and returns to the sitting room. He places the cup on the table to John's left and waits. 

No response. Sherlock sinks to his knees and rests his head against John's uninjured leg. Enough pressure to let John know he is there but not so insistent that it forces John's attention. John's hand cards automatically through Sherlock's curls although he shows no other sign that he is alert to Sherlock's presence. They sit like that for several long minutes as John's breathing slows to match the long, luxurious strokes of his hand. When John's breathing is calm and even, Sherlock twists to let his lips press against John's palm. John draws in a quick breath and his gaze flickers down to lock with Sherlock's deep ethereal concerned eyes. Sherlock searches John's face with a painfully open expression. Every line of his face is praying for the right thing to do or say. I'm lost, John. I love you and you're hurting but I'm not the doctor and I don't know how to fix this. A small smile of acknowledgement flickers over John's face, but it is quickly replaced by harsh lines of sadness. 

Sherlock cannot stand to see John so utterly broken. He rises to his knees and slowly leans forward until his forehead is resting against John's. John gasps, a broken cry tearing itself from his throat, and that is all the response Sherlock needs to lean the last few centimeters and press their lips together, swallowing the unnatural noise with his own mouth.He can taste the bitter tang and cool drag of menthol-laced despair on his tongue. Sherlock absorbs John's anguish for seconds that become minutes that pass until Sherlock's not sure how long they've been locked together and he's not sure they will ever part. Finally, with an audible keening, John snaps back and away from Sherlock, who immediately panics. Was that wrong? Maybe I should have given John space. Maybe...but his train of thought is derailed as John pushes him back onto the floor. Before he knows what is happening, John has Sherlock's shirt unbuttoned and is dragging it from his shoulders. Once the shirt is gone, John stills again. Slowly he drags one shaking finger down Sherlock's long lean shoulder, down his pale freckled arm, to the crook of his elbow. Sherlock wants to flinch away but he doesn't. He knows John needs to see. To be reassured that the drugs are part of a past Sherlock doesn't even care to remember. John slowly traces each scar with his finger, then his nose, then his tongue. Then he does it all again. Sherlock loses track of how many circuits John makes and his world narrows down to John's finger, nose, tongue touching him. Sherlock marvels that anyone can make him feel this loved. He discovers that he can't find it in himself to hate these scars. Not when they are being stroked, licked, kissed, adored. Eventually, John comes to rest on his side next to Sherlock with his ear pressed to Sherlock's chest. One hand is still wrapped around Sherlock's elbow but the white-hot fear has receded. Sherlock kisses away the salty tears and holds his John close.

Tomorrow John will want to talk about it. He'll tell Sherlock all about the gangly pre-teen overdose victim that came into the clinic and the friends who abandoned him when it became clear that he was not going to make it. John will describe with agonizing clarity the limp cold chest underneath his hands on each compression and the harsh, sterile, stubborn hum of the machine that refused to register a heartbeat. Tomorrow John will tell him all of this, but tonight Sherlock will comfort John without words. Words are unnecessary, superfluous, false. Sherlock will comfort John with his warm body, beating heart, and old scars. Scars on his arms that speak of past loneliness, scars on his chest that echo frantic chases and near misses, and scars on his back that scream his love for this lovely, broken, conductor of light that Sherlock is still amazed that he is allowed to love. Every day. Always.


End file.
